Poetic Justice
by Never-Ending-Donkey
Summary: A certain old-school character gets what he deserves. Rated T for brief language. Boring or unimaginative flames will be cruelly and mercilessly mocked.


Gildas the Asshole

Disclaimer: The Spyroverse belongs to Krome Studios.

**Poetic Justice**

Moneybags rubbed his paws with glee and anticipation. It obviously wasn't every day that the Annual Stone Hill Ridge Dash came around, and he was sure to make a killing this time. It was betting season once again. All he needed were the odds. Even with speed demons like Spyro the Pigeo—er, DRAGON and Dumbas— um, HUNTER of Avalar as very possible contestants, there was always a chance of some new hotshot grabbing the spotlight, preferably one with deep pockets and high credulity.

Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself, Moneybags told himself. Then, an ingenious thought crossed his gem-obsessed mind. "But of course!" the fat bear cried, "If I consult a psychic, I'll know who will win AHEAD of time, plus I won't have to bother with fudging the…"

The dapper ursine trailed off. "Drat, I should really avoid announcing my schemes to no one in particular…"

While Moneybags understood that certain dragons could predict the future, he couldn't be bothered to learn which clan. To him, all those hulking, melodramatic creatures looked the same. He wasn't willing to travel, so any local would have to do.

"Zzz—ng! Snrk! Buh? What's all this about a brat tickler?" It seemed that our "hero" was in luck, for an elderly Elder had just conveniently awoken. "Them little shits couldn't 'preciate a good tickle if it hit 'em in the face!"

Moneybags glanced over at the aged dragon. Had he been a native, the ursine would have recognized the reedy voice of Astor the Storyteller, a well intentioned but depressingly senile Elder, and left his vicinity as quickly and politely as possible.

"Listen, dear fellow, I am in haste," Moneybags articulated, "I have a question regarding the upcoming race—"

"Eh? What race?" interrupted the elderly Elder. "Yeh mean that crazy ol' Ridge Dash? Ah, now I remember. We didn't always have that here in Stone Hill. Used to be called 'Desert Temple Dash.' Course, we got kicked outta there—was it a thousand years ago? Dang, I'm old!"

Astor's story was going absolutely nowhere. If Moneybags was to get anything done today, he would have to find a distraction. Or, he could completely drop his English gentleman act and run away like a rude, sissy coward. Not surprisingly, he decided to do the latter.

The ursine con artist did not have to run too far (not that his physique would allow him to), for Astor's short-term memory was not as keen as his long-term. Our greedy antihero would have to seek psychic assistance elsewhere.

Long story whittled down, he did. It came in the form of a pudgy, fatherly-looking blue dragon with improbably large wings. Gildas the Artisan Flight Instructor was building a mockery of a teepee out of big sticks when he saw the obese, tuxedo-clad bear come running (or rather waddling much faster than usual) towards him (without looking where he was going, of course). The mammal inevitably tripped over, and utterly destroyed, Gildas' not-so painstakingly made structure.

"I rather liked that wooden teepee," Gildas deadpanned. "You have quite a bit nerve plowing around here, knocking down other people's work."

Moneybags stood back up and dusted himself off. He felt quite self-conscious in the presence of this giant, and knew he would have to choose his words carefully. "I-I-I'm terribly sorry about your, uh, teepee, sir," he blatantly lied, "but I have some important matters to attend to, and I may be needing your assistance."

The fat dragon gave the ursine a humorless look. "Look here, Sprinter Jack, I put at least one sixteenth of my heart and almost as much of my soul into that teepee," he droned pompously, "Who are YOU to ask ME for help, especially if you have no wings?"

"Erm… I'm very sorry, sir, I didn't mean to offend you, but—"

"Sorry? That's not enough, my boy. It's one thing to run about like a deranged ram, but to insult a dragon of my pedigree is quite a serious mistake."

"This will only take a minute of your time, I promise—"

"No, no, apology first, then I'll think about it. Bring me one hundred gems and a jug of milk, say you're very sorry, and maybe I'll help you."

Gildas clearly would not surrender to reason. Now, Moneybags could easily afford to pay one hundred gems, willingly or not, but this "psychic" had not specified what animal he wanted the milk from. Then, as he backed away from the Elder and broke into an awkward trot, it struck him. He would have to go into Town Square and buy the milk himself, just like any regular putz.

And so, after wandering around Town Square's market (sticking out like a sheep in a crowd of gnorcs, of course), Moneybags purchased the cheapest and least harmful looking milk jug he could find. He returned to Stone Hill, grumbling indignantly. A few high-value gems and one piggish milk-chugging later, Gildas seemed ready to share his expensive "knowledge."

"So, let's hear about this 'business,' shall we?" Gildas asked magnanimously.

Moneybags cleared his throat and queried, somewhat impatiently, "Who will win the upcoming Ridge Dash?"

Any other Artisan Elder would have laughed and told the anthropomorphic ursine that if he wanted a seer, he would have to travel all the way to Dream Weavers and talk to one of THEIR Elders. But Gildas had his own agenda. He made a low humming sound, as if in deep thought, then rolled his eyes all the way back. His tongue flopped out and slapped against his chin as he let his stout body vibrate frantically. Then, just as it seemed like he was about to explode (or fall over), he snapped back to his previous, pokerfaced demeanor. His gaze fell on the bewildered mammal in front of him, and said in a booming, melodramatic voice:

"I HAVE THE ANSWER."

"W-well what is it?" an awed Moneybags whispered.

Gildas took a deep breath, and… switched back to his deadpan tone. "Two thousand gems and a fine cake to hear the answer."

The con artiste of Avalar was livid, but there was little point in trying to haggle with a gargantuan reptilian beast that could set you on fire and walk away with total impunity. So he hurried back to Town Square for a second humiliating grocery trip. Fine cakes were not cheap at all.

He returned to Stone Hill yet again, gem sack and ridiculously tantalizing cake in tow. The insufferable Elder was rebuilding his fake teepee as if their frustrating exchange had never happened. Thoroughly insulted, Moneybags unceremoniously tossed the gems at the dragon's feet and shoved the cake at him. "Here you go," the obviously cheesed-off bear growled through clenched teeth, "Now what's that so-and-so prediction?"

Gildas looked puzzled. "What prediction?"

"WHO IS GOING TO WIN THE GODS-FORSAKEN RIDGE DASH?!"

The flight instructor shrugged and said, "The first to cross the finish line, of course."

**THE END!**


End file.
